X.

_THE KIRK IN THE VILLAGE._

"HAVE you heard your pupil's latest request, Miss Prosser?" asked Mr.

Clifford, laughingly, as he turned from Blanche, who had been pleading

her suit in low, coaxing tones. "She actually wants to go to the kirk in

the village for some high festival occasion next Sunday--and in company

with that wonderful Kirsty, too, whom we hear so much about just now.

She refuses with disdain my kind offer of the carriage for herself and

party--wants to go in a wheel-barrow, or something of that

description--is it not, Blanche?"

"Oh no, papa! how can you think such absurd things? We are going in

Neil's cart, of course. It will be such fun! Kirsty says there will be

lots of straw for seats, and Kenneth is to drive. You know you have more

than half promised to let me go, papa," added Blanche, beseechingly

clinging to her father in the hope of an immediate decision in her

favor, for her governess had raised her voice in strong disapproval of

such an irregular proceeding.

Mr. Clifford had noticed with pleasure how much his little daughter

seemed to be enjoying these autumn days in the Highlands, which he

feared might prove duller than she expected. It was evident, too, that

her enjoyment of them consisted chiefly in the companionship she had

made with those peasant friends in the Glen.

Blanche's glowing description of Kirsty, and her repetition of several

of the old woman's shrewd sayings, gave Mr. Clifford a favorable

impression of Kirsty. And for the little Morag he had always entertained

a special liking since the stormy day on which he had found her, all

alone, at work on the soaking earthen floor of the hut, and he

congratulated himself on having secured her as an appendage to the

little Shetlander. He frequently assured the doubting Miss Prosser that

the child would get no harm from her intercourse with these dwellers in

the Glen; and, in the present instance, he did not object that she

should see a new phase of life, in company with her Highland friends.

Before Blanche went to bed, she had gained her father's consent to the

Sunday project. She lay awake for a long time, thinking how very

delightful it would be to go to church with Kirsty and Morag--and in a

cart, too; and to be obliged to stay so long away that she should not be

at home either for early dinner or afternoon lessons with her governess,

so that the latter would have to be dispensed with altogether. Blanche

thought it would be the most delightfully out-of-the-way Sunday which

she had ever known; and she fell asleep at last, to dream that she and

Morag, with Kirsty and Kenneth, had come rumbling in Neil's cart into

Westminster Abbey while service was going on.

Morag, too, on that same evening, after a more brief and tremulous suit

than her wee leddy's, had gained her father's permission to go to the

kirk, for the first time in her life.

To the little English girl the prospect was merely a pleasant ploy; but

to Morag Dingwall it was the fulfilling of a dream of years. How often

she had watched, and how much she had longed to join, the little

straggling companies wending their way along the white hilly roads from

all parts of the Glen to meet in that little kirk in the village, which

she had never seen but closed and silent. Kirsty often told her that the

Lord Jesus Christ loved to have His people gather to worship Him. Only a

few days ago she had been reading to the little girl the story of how

He had once come, after He rose from the dead, into the midst of a

little company which had met to worship, and of how He had stretched

forth His hands, saying, "Peace be unto you."

Morag had remarked, in a mournful tone, "He never does the like noo,

Kirsty; would ye no like to see Him, jist ance?"

"An' have I no seen Him?" answered Kirsty, triumphantly. "'Deed, bairn,

I've whiles felt as near 'til Him as gin His fingers were wavin' aboun'

my heid, wi' the verra words i' His mou', an' 'Peace be wi' ye.' I aye

gaed oot o' His hoose wi' a blither hert an' o lichter fit than I gaed

tilt."

The old woman had never been strong enough to go to the kirk since

Morag's acquaintance with her, and she mourned over it as a great

privation. Neil's cart was a rare luxury, only procurable indeed on

Communion Sabbaths, which were held once a year in the Glen, when the

scattered inhabitants came from its remotest parts,--many of them across

miles of pathless hills, to share in the services of the day.

Never did Jewish peasant go up to the Holy City on the great day of the

Feast with more joy and hope than did Kirsty Macpherson to the yearly

communion at the village kirk. And, to the present occasion, she looked

forward with special gladness; for had she not to give thanks for a dear

one whom she knew, at last, to be safe in the home of God--the homeless

wanderer, whose name had often been borne by her in agony from that

communion-table to the ear of Him who came to seek and save the lost?

Morag was waiting in the castle court-yard on Sunday morning, long

before the little _châtelaine_ had completed her toilette to her maid's

satisfaction. At last the door was swung open, and the wee leddy came

running out to meet her friend, looking fresh and dainty in her spotless

white dress and pretty blue hat, with which Ellis had adorned her--not

without many regrets that such elegant garments should descend to such

degraded uses as a seat in a cart; but, since she was going to church,

her maid concluded that, of a necessity, she must wear her best attire.

"How bonnie ye look!" exclaimed Morag, gazing at her wee leddy with

unfeigned admiration. "Ye're jist like the sky itsel', a' blue-and-white

like."

"So I am! how funny! But oh, Morag, is not this a glorious morning?

Won't Kirsty be pleased? I really think it's the finest day we've had

since I came to Glen Eagle. I'm so happy," and Blanche danced gleefully

on the soft turf. "Now, Chance, you needn't be wagging your tail. You

are not to be invited to come with us to-day, my dear dog. It's Sunday,

you know, and we are going to church with Kirsty and Kenneth; and dogs

never do go to church you know, Chance."

"Ay do they, whiles!" interrupted Morag, patting the pleading Chance

sympathizingly; "they gang to the kirk onyway. For I've often thought I

wad jist like to be auld Neil's collie, when I've seen him passin' wi'

Neil on a Sabbath mornin', and I was feelin' terrible lonesome at hame.

Kirsty says, 'The dogs are mony a time quaieter than the bairns at the

kirk, and that attentive-like.'" But Morag agreed that since Chance was

not a dog of church-going habits, it would be wiser to leave him at

home.

Neil's cart already stood on the road at the cottage gate when the

little girls reached it. Kenneth was waiting at the horse's head, and

Kirsty came forth in all the glory of a spotless white _mutch_ (a high

cap of muslin, worn by the old peasant women of Scotland). She wore also

a pretty scarlet cloak, which had been her best attire for the last

fifty years. In her hand she held her big, worn Bible, carefully wrapped

in her ample white pocket-handkerchief, and from it there projected some

stalks of thyme, and mint, and southernwood, as a preventive against

possible drowsiness, during the long services of the day.

"Welcome til ye, my bairns," said she, greeting the little girls kindly,

as she closed the little gate behind her. "Havna we gotten a bonnie

Sawbbath-day? It's jist an oncommon fine mornin' for this time o' the

year. May the Sun o' Richtyousness arise wi' healin' intil His wings the

day, lichtin' up a' the dark herts,--jist as the bonnie sun this mornin'

garred the drumlie licht weir aff the glen," added Kirsty, with a glad

light in her calm gray eyes.

Blanche had already mounted into the cart, and was jumping about among

the straw, greatly to the destruction of Ellis's careful morning

toilette.

"O Kenneth! isn't this so very jolly? It will be such fun going to

church like this. I'm sure I shall never forget it all my life. I do

wish papa could see us start. Do you know I almost think he wanted to?

Doesn't Kirsty look beautiful? I wish she'd always wear that red cloak;

don't you, Kenneth?"

The old woman came leaning on Morag's shoulder, and stepped into the

cart, followed by the little girl. Kenneth cracked the whip with an air

of business, and the little company started.

It was certainly a perfect autumn day, and Glen Eagle was looking its

loveliest. Kirsty's face wore a look of holy peace, as she sat silently

with folded hands, and gazed upon the calm, still scene around. "I hae

jist been minin' o' that glaidsome word o' David's," she said presently,

turning to Morag, who was seated by her side. "'The Lord is good til a',

an' His tender mercies are ower a' His warks.' I'm thinkin' it maun jist

hae been on some bonnie quaiet day like this, when he was awa' frae the

din an' the steer of Jerooslem, 'at he thocht on makin' that bonnie

psalm."

Morag had never heard the psalm, but she resolved she would try to find

it that evening, and perhaps her father might help her. She said the

verse over to herself, and thought Kirsty must be right in imagining

that the poet-king would think his beautiful thoughts on such a day as

this.

But Kenneth, who had been listening quietly, as he walked by the side of

the cart, presently looked up, and said, "I'm not so sure of that,

granny. Don't you think King David would just be as likely to say that

after a long day's fighting at the head of his soldiers, or after a busy

day in his palace, as among sunny green fields when he had nothing to do

but enjoy himself? Do you no think, granny, that folk maybe need to

believe in the tender mercies of the Lord most in the din and the fret

of big towns, when, besides perhaps being lonely, and in want one's

self, you see so many people still more sad and worse off? D'ye no

think, granny, that it would be more comfort to think of the tender

mercies of the Lord, living in such dreary streets, than in such a

bonnie glen as this?" said Kenneth, smiling sadly as he remembered how

much he and his mother had needed, and how often they had found, these

tender mercies in such places.

"'Deed, laddie, I'm thinkin' ye hae the richt o't efter a'; I'm glaid ye

thocht o' that," said Kirsty, looking down at her grandson with her most

pleased smile.

As Morag sat silently listening to the conversation, she thought how

good it was that these "tender mercies" seemed to be over all,--among

the busy, crowded haunts of men, as well as with the lonely dwellers

among the mountains. And as the cart rumbled slowly along the winding

road, the little girl repeated the verse to herself till she knew it

well.

Many a time in after days that verse came back to her memory, sometimes

as a prayer, but more often as a thanksgiving. Across the waste of

years, with graves between and many a sorrow, she would look back and

remember this still Sabbath morning when she went for the first time to

the little village kirk, and the vanished faces that were round her

then; and she would sum up the tender mercies of the Lord.

The sound of the old church bell now began to be heard across the still

moorland. The little straggling companies quickened their pace at its

sound, and the nearer roads began to stir with assembling worshippers.

Blanche looked with eager interest at the gathering groups, occasionally

asking whispered information from Morag concerning them. Among them were

old bent men and young children, who had come many a mile through the

pathless hills that morning. There were shepherds in their plaids and

broad bonnets, with their collie dogs following, just as Morag had said,

Blanche noticed; and she resolved to keep an eye on their behavior in

church, and perhaps give Chance a similar privilege another time if her

impression of the conduct of the collies was favorable.

The kirk stood in the centre of the village green, and when Kirsty and

her young party came in sight, there were already many groups gathered

round it. The old minister was threading his way among them, and there

was many a broad bonnet raised and many a curtsy dropped, as with

kindly, gracious, though silent greeting he passed into the church.

The old bell was still pealing, sweet and musical, just as it used to do

centuries ago in the convent chapel down in the hollow, from whence it

had been taken when the ancient chapel became a roofless ruin; and now

it called the dwellers in the Glen to the kirk with the same soothing

chime as it used to summon the nuns to matins and vespers, and remind

the scattered peasants that the hour of prayer had come.

Suddenly it ceased to chime, and the thronging groups on the greensward

moved quietly in at the open doors of the kirk.

Many eyes were turned on Kirsty and her young friends as they passed

slowly up the aisle. Some recognized the bonnie wee leddy of the castle;

and not a few knew the nut-brown Morag by sight, and smiled kindly on

her. The story of the poor woman, who had come to the Glen to die on

such a lowly bed, was known to many, and they looked with interest on

Kirsty's grandson.

The kirk was almost filled when they entered. Two long, narrow tables,

covered with white, stretched from the pulpit the whole length of the

church, at which the communicants were to sit. Before taking her place

there, Kirsty led the children to seats at the side of the church; and

then she moved away slowly to take her solitary post at the long white

table.

Morag did not venture to raise her eyes for some time. The scene was so

new and strange to her that for a moment she felt something of the

terror-stricken feeling which possessed her on the evening when she was

brought before the party at the castle. But when, at last, she ventured

to look up, she caught a glimpse of Kirsty's calm, worshipping face, and

she began to feel more reassured. Meanwhile, Blanche kept gazing about

in a vivacious manner, taking notes of everything. On the whole, she

felt much disappointment with the interior of the little kirk. It looked

so bare and stern, she thought, as she searched in vain for the altar,

or the organ, which she expected to peal forth every minute.

At last the silence was broken, not by the organ, but by the grave,

deep voice of the minister, who reared his gray head from the pulpit,

and began to read a grand old psalm, which the congregation joined in

singing. Then followed a prayer, and all the people rose, the men

covering their faces with their broad bonnets.

Morag stood listening with closed eyes and moveless posture. Blanche

tried very hard to do so also, but she could not help opening her eyes

occasionally to see what the dogs were about, and presently she began to

wish that the prayer was done and they would begin to sing again. She

occasionally made exploring tours with her eyes over the church, and at

last she caught sight of Kirsty's red cloak and familiar face, and by

her side she saw a figure which she thought she recognized. To

facilitate observations, she raised herself on tiptoe; and at last she

was satisfied that the stalwart form at the long white table, beside

Kirsty, was none other than the keeper Dingwall. She could hardly

restrain an exclamation of surprise at this discovery. The keeper, she

knew, was not in the habit of going to church; and, certainly, Morag

would have told her if she had expected him there to-day. Very

impatiently did she listen to the concluding petitions, for she could

not get Morag to open her eyes till the prayer was done. At last, while

the congregation were engaged in turning the leaves of their Bibles, in

search of the chapter about to be read, Blanche contrived by a variety

of signs to make Morag's eyes alight on the spot where her father stood.

If Blanche's astonishment had been great, Morag's was still greater,

when she caught sight of her father's tall form rearing itself beside

Kirsty's bent head. This, then, was the reason why he had smiled so

strangely that morning when she laid her hand on his arm, and said, with

a great effort to break through her reserve, "O father! I would like

richt weel gin ye were comin' til the kirk wi' us. I ken fine the Lord

Jesus Christ would be glaid to see ye. Kirsty says He's aye weel pleased

to see folk intil His ain hoose."

And now he was seated beside Kirsty at the communion-table, where, as

the old woman had told Morag, none but those who loved the Lord might

come. The little girl felt a thrill of delight, greater than she ever

did in her life. She felt sure that her father must have begun to know

and love the Lord Jesus Christ, or he never would have come there. So

happy and thankful was she, that she could not wait till the minister

prayed again, but said, low in her heart, words of deep thanksgiving.

There were many besides Blanche who noticed with astonishment the tall

form of the keeper in his unwonted place at the communion-table; and

many along with Morag gave thanks to Him who "turneth men's hearts as

rivers of water whither He will," and who had brought this proud,

rebellious spirit to the foot of His cross.

Dingwall had been welcomed to the place he occupied to-day by the old

minister some evenings before in the manse. He disclosed the picture of

his past life, with its darkest shadows unrelieved; and had told of his

late repentance. The pastor recognized it as genuine, and there was a

light in his eye to-day as he read his Master's message, "This is a

faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Jesus Christ came

into the world to save sinners."

After the usual service was over, Blanche's interest, which had been

flagging, began to revive, and she felt glad that her maid was not in

attendance to take her home, as she felt curious to know what was coming

next.

Presently a hymn was sung to a sad wailing tune, which suited the words.

It told of that night on which the Son of Man endured the "eager rage

of every foe;" and Blanche felt a knot rise in her throat as she

listened to it and tried to join. Never before, she thought, had she

felt so sorry for the Lord Jesus Christ, who was "crucified, dead, and

buried," though she had heard all about it so many times. And then she

suddenly remembered Morag's anxiety to know all about the "good Lord who

died on the green hill," and how many questions she used to ask about

Him during the first days of their acquaintance; but she never mentioned

the subject now, so Blanche concluded that she could not care so much as

she did before.

The words of the hymn had brought tears to Morag's eyes, too. But then

she quickly remembered the joyful side of the sorrowful story, and

thought of Him "who liveth, and was dead, and is alive for evermore."

While the hymn was being sung, four old men, the _elders_ of the kirk,

walked slowly in, carrying the plates of bread and cups of wine, which

they placed reverently on a white-covered table, where the minister now

sat, and which Blanche supposed must be the altar she had been in search

of.

The children watched with mingled curiosity and awe while the symbols

were passed to all who sat at the long white tables, after the minister

had given thanks and read to the congregation the Master's words which

He spoke in the upper room at Jerusalem when He commanded that this

Feast should be kept by His disciples till He should come again.

Perfect stillness reigned throughout the church; almost every head was

bowed, and many a heart went up in silent adoring gratitude to Him who

had loved them and given Himself for them.

When the elders had again reverently placed the symbols on the table in

front of the pulpit, the stillness was broken by the deep, grave voice

of the pastor, speaking words of exhortation to his flock, that they

should be "blameless and harmless, the sons of God." A sweet psalm of

thanksgiving was sung, and then, with uplifted hands, the minister

prayed that the peace of God might rest on the little company; and, at

last, the peasants moved away from the long white tables to scatter to

their distant homes in the Glen; some of them never to meet again till

they gather to the Feast above.

The children sat and watched them as they passed slowly out of the kirk,

and then they, too, rose to go. Morag sought her father immediately.

She gazed eagerly into his face, as if she expected him to say

something; but he only pressed her hand, and turning to Kirsty, he said

'Good-bye,' and then walked away.

"Lat him gang hame his lane, bairn," whispered Kirsty, as she noticed

Morag's disappointed look, and her movement to follow, when her father

started to go home alone. "I'm thinkin' he'll hae better company wi' him

than ony o' us wad mak' Morag, lass."

And then surveying her little flock, Kirsty said, smiling kindly, "Noo,

bairns, I'se warrant ye're hun'ry eneuch. Jist ye come doun til a quaiet

burnside 'at I ken fine, and we'll hae a bit o' a rest--and ye'll eat a

piece I hae brocht for ye a'."

So the old woman led the way to a quiet nook behind the village, where

the yellowing birk-trees drooped round a pleasant bit of greensward,

hiding it from the dusty highway, while the splashings of a little burn,

rolling merrily among the white stones, kept the turf smooth and green

all the year through.

Here Kirsty seated herself, with her merry little party round her. From

underneath her red cloak she then produced a basket containing some

delicious cream-cakes, which she had baked on the previous evening for

this occasion, and of which she now invited the children to partake.

Never did lunch taste so nice; and never was there such a pleasant

Sunday, Blanche thought, as she sat at Kirsty's feet, eating her piece

of oat-cake, and talking to her old friend.

Morag was perched on a stone, with her sunburnt feet paddling in the

brown water, and Kenneth stood watching the fate of twigs, meant to

personate his friends, which he occasionally tossed into the water,

where presently they got among the tiny rapids of the burn, some of them

being finally entangled there, while others were able to extricate

themselves from their difficulties, and were borne onwards to the river.

Blanche prattled away merrily, as usual, upon a variety of topics;

sometimes asking questions about the services of the day, and comparing

notes with the arrangements of the church where she went in London.

Morag listened with wondering eyes as the wee leddy glowingly described

the beautiful, many-colored picture-windows, the pretty gilded altar,

and the great organ, with its surpliced choir. The little mountain

maiden had looked upon the interior of the village kirk as very

beautiful; but this church, described by Blanche, must be much more so:

and Morag began to think that perhaps the Lord Jesus Christ liked best

to be worshipped in a fine church like that, since He was so high and

holy. But, with the thought, there came a pang of disappointment, and,

whenever she had an opportunity, she confided her trouble to Kirsty.

After pondering a little, the old woman slowly replied, "Weel, bairn,

I'll no say but that the Maister likes a' thing that's bonnie and fair

to see. A fine bigget hoose o' worship, wi' the best wark that the

fingers o' man can mak', canna be onacceptable til Him. But I'm

thinkin', efter a', the thing that'll please Him maist is to see ilka

hert worshippin' Him in speerit and in trowth,--nae maitter whither it

be intil a gran' bigget kirk, or amang the bracken upo' the hillside, as

oor folk ance did, lang syne, Morag, lass."

"Oh yes, Kirsty, I know. You mean in the time of the Covenanters, don't

you?" said Blanche as she broke off a branch from the bog-myrtle, and

threw it into the burn, in imitation of Kenneth's amusement. "I know all

about the Covenanters. By the by, I've got a book in London with some

rather nice stories about them. I wish I had it here, Morag; I think you

would like it. The soldiers certainly were very cruel and rough to the

people they found making a church among the heather. I'm sure I could

never see why," continued the little English maiden, as she went to

extricate her twig from among the rapids with her umbrella; because that

twig was Morag she said, and she must give her a little poke on.

"Ay, ay!" said the old woman meditatively. "They were the dark days o'

oor kirk, but wha kens 'at they warna the brichtest days, efter a', i'

the eyes o' Him 'at walks amang the seven golden cawnal-sticks we read

o' i' the Revelations. He aye telt His kirk nae to be feared at onything

it had to suffer."

"Weel, Morag, lass! so ye're thinkin' yet ye wad like to worship i' the

gran' hoose in Lon'on, 'at the wee leddy tells o', better nor in oor wee

kirkie?" said Kirsty, turning smilingly to the crestfallen little Morag,

as she divined her thoughts. "D'ye min' far the Laist Supper was

keepit--i' the upper room in Jerooslem? Weel, I'm no thinkin' there

could hae been onything very braw intilt; and yet the Maister thocht it

guid eneuch for sic a Feast as the warl' niver saw."

Blanche did not remember about it, so Kirsty handed her the old Bible,

and she read St. Luke's account of the Last Supper, finishing with the

words--"And when they had sung a hymn, they went to the Mount of

Olives."

"Why, Kirsty, how funny! That's just something like what we've done

to-day. And I'm sure the Mount of Olives couldn't be half so nice as

this burn-side; could it, Morag? I shall be sure to remember this Sunday

when I go to Holy Communion, Kirsty. But that will be ever so long yet.

I've got to be confirmed first, you know. Miss Prosser says it's proper

to go to Holy Communion when one is about seventeen; but, oh dear! it's

a long time till then. I do wish I were grown up," said Blanche, with a

sigh over the slow progress of Time.

"Eh, but my dear lambie, ye maun let Him intil yer hert lang afore that

time comes roun'. Will ye no listen til the Guid Shepherd's voice

callin' ye the day? There's a hantle o' rough slippy bits o' life afore

ye, my bonnie bairn, I'm thinkin'. Will ye no lat Him tak' ye intil His

arms, and carry ye safe through them a'?" said Kirsty, as she looked

fondly at the little girl.

Blanche did not reply, but sat nervously plucking blades of grass.

Presently she jumped up, and ran to join Kenneth, who had gone to catch

the old cart-horse grazing by the waterside, to yoke him in the cart

again, and prepare for the homeward journey.

Then Morag gave Kirsty a shoulder to help her from her low seat on the

greensward; and as she stooped to pick up the basket, she said in a low,

eager tone, "Kirsty, werna ye richt glad to see father i' the kirk the

day? I never thocht he was comin' tilt."

"Ay was I,--glaider than ye can ken' o', bairn," replied Kirsty, her

gray eyes beaming with joy. "'Deed I'm thinkin' there maun hae been joy

amang the angels themsels, the day when they saw yer father sitting at

the table o' the Lord--a bran' plucked frae the burnin'. Eh, bairn, ye

that's ain o' His ain lambs yersel', arna ye glaid to think that yer

puir father's nae latten bide oot i' the cauld."

Morag's face flushed with joy to hear Kirsty call her a Christian, and

she was going to make some reply when they heard Blanche's clear,

silvery tones calling them to come--that the cart was all ready to

start.

"There's that bonnie wee leddy, wi' her sweet tongue," said Kirsty, as

she moved to go. "Dear lamb! may the Guid Shepherd mak' goodness and

mercy to follow her a' the days o' her life. She's a winsome bit thing

as I ever set eyes on. I wad like richt weel to ken that she gied her

young hert to the Lord, Morag. There's a heap o' snares and dangers o'

the great warl' for the like o' her. They tell me she's fat they ca' an

heiress, and has heaps o' hooses and lan' in Englan' belongin' til

hersel'. It wad be a richt sair maitter gin she were like the young

man--him ye ken that we read o' i' the Scripter, wha turned awa frae the

Lord sorrowfu'-like, because his hert was set upon his gran'

possessions. She has sic a hantle o' bonnie ways aboot her, and as sweet

a like natur' as ever God made. Ye maun be earnest wi' the Lord for yer

wee leddy, Morag, my lass."

This was a subject about which Morag longed greatly to talk to Kirsty,

though she had never yet been able to break through her shyness and

reserve. She looked up eagerly in the old woman's face, and was about to

reply, when Blanche pushed aside the fringing birk-trees in search of

them, and they left the quiet green nook, and turned into the dusty

highway.

Many a time in after years, when these autumn days lay far away in the

dim haze of distance, Morag Dingwall would leave the beaten path, if

she chanced to pass that way, and wander in among the whispering

birk-trees and the scented bog-myrtle, to stand and gaze at this little

spot of mossy-turf. Time having brought many changes for her, she would

stand pensively and gaze at this still unchanged spot, where the little

singing burn flowed on in its sparkling glee, heedless of the vanished

voices which had once mingled in its sport. And as she stood there her

thoughts would go slipping back--

"By the green bye-ways forgotten, to a stiller circle of time,

Where violets faded for ever, seemed blooming as once in their

prime,"

till her bonnie wee leddy's voice seemed again to ring out clear and

silvery, and she could hear Kirsty's low, earnest tones, as she spoke of

the Master she loved so well.